


LoVe AU Week Fics

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-04-03 17:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14001228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: Seven short LoVe fics written for Vmficrecs' #LV AU Week





	1. DAY ONE: CROSSOVER OR FUSION FIC

**Day 1:** **Crossover or Fusion Fic (Logan & Veronica mixed with your favorite movies, tv shows, comics, books) **

With a wrench and shimmer, Veronica’s transported molecules reassemble–leaving her trapped, with the worst away team ever, on the cold and windy surface of Ceti Alpha Four.

Waving away a cloud of dust, she scans the desolate landscape, ignoring the “Not another dirty rock!” whine of Ensign Piznarski, behind her. Briskly taps her communicator to report.

“Mars to Valiant,” she says, as beside her, Ensign Cook removes a pocket mirror so she can check her hair, then lends it to Lieutenant Commander Echolls. “We’re within view of the crash site, sir, but no sign anywhere of the ship that sent the distress call. It’s like it vanished!”

“Copy that, Commander.” Captain Keith Mars’ tone over the comm is warm and approving; Veronica pretends not to notice Cook rolling her eyes and mouthing, ‘NEPOTISM!’ “And there’s no trace of a cloaking signature nearby?”

“Yeah, that would be a negatory.” Lieutenant Van Lowe uses the toe of his boot to tip over a rusting replicator, then crushes the slug beneath (in full and careless defiance of Federation rules). “There’s just a bunch of junk down here, and under that, dirt. Real classy place for a colony–I’m shocked to my core it was abandoned.”

“MYSTERIOUSLY abandoned,” Echolls corrects, with the shit-stirring grin and eyebrow bob he employs to mock Veronica’s enthusiasms. “And none of the colonists were EVER FOUND. Be careful where you step; Mars here thinks the whole area might be booby-trapped.”

“Oh please.” Cook retrieves her mirror and crankily re-pockets it. “Like anyone would bother setting a trap on this shithole, way out on the fringes where nobody COMES.”

“Well something happened to three-hundred and forty-six people.” Veronica studies the readout on her tricorder. “I mean they’re not lurking around, just out of view, watching holovids and singing show tunes.”

“Hey guys?” Piznarski calls from behind them, causing Echolls to groan softly under his breath. “There’s no such thing as a liquid silicon lifeform, right? Because I am getting the WEIRDEST results on my scans.”

“Sure you’re not holding the tricorder upside down again?” Cook mutters, which makes Echolls snicker and high-five her.

Veronica grits her teeth and tells him, in her best facsimile of a patient tone, “Stosh, just quit scanning dirt and get over here. We’re looking for a crashed shuttle today, not adding to your ‘obscure space creatures’ collection.”

“But Veronica…I mean, Commander Mars…do you realize what the discovery of a liquid silicon lifeform would be WORTH? Like on the interstellar enthusiasts’ forums alone, just in terms of my reputation as a collector? Seriously, it would make my name based on a DNA sample, and you know Dr. Fennel told me I could…”

“Nobody wants to hear what Dr. Fennel said you could,” Van Lowe observes, straightening to squint at the horizon. “Seriously, where does Starfleet get these idiots? Every year they’re prettier, younger and dumber, it’s like we’re recruiting at high school proms.”

“Oh, look,” Echolls says, having finally stopped primping and snickering long enough to do his job. “The supposed crash site’s a dead zone, but I AM getting a weak signal of some kind from way over that direction.”

He heads purposefully off towards the source, like HE’S leading the away team and not Veronica, and she grits her teeth and manages not to stomp her foot. How was she supposed to know, when she got mad at him for quitting Starfleet and dumped him, that he’d not only have a change of heart…but buy his way back in, and end up on HER spaceship? As HER security officer? If he had planned the whole scenario, in a Machiavellian scheme to torment her with his presence, he could not have arranged things better.

And Cook only wore the uniform with the short skirt to a crash site in order to better flirt with him. Veronica is 99% sure.

“You’re not in charge here, Logan!” she yells, storming after her nemesis and grabbing his sleeve. “You don’t get to just wander off in random directions and expect the rest of us to trail behind.”

“And yet I’m here, you’re hot on my heels, and so is everyone else.” He waves a hand at Van Lowe, who’s whistling as he approaches, hands in pockets, “Maybe you were a bit hasty, when you kicked me to the curb for not being officer material, peaches. And maybe you want to fight with me all the time about how your rank is higher, now, because MAYBE you regret your choices!”

“As if,” Veronica scoffs. Notes Jackie picking her way daintily across a pile of rocks and plants herself in Logan’s sightline, so he can’t see the glamorous Ensign OR her high-heeled boots. “You are even more annoying now than you were back at the academy. And let me tell you, Mister, NOBODY is amazing enough in bed to make up for being a pain in the ASS!”

“See, I KNEW you were only pretending to forget about the whole amazing in bed part.” He points his tricorder at her, brows wiggling gleefully. “And I further knew that this whole fighting-fate thing you’ve been doing for the last six months is solely and exclusively because you’re stubborn. We’re on the same ship, for Chrissakes–because your FATHER liked me enough to bring me aboard!”

“Uh, guys?” Piz’s voice comes over the communicator, even higher and whinier than normal. “Veronica? Anyone? Where’d you all go? Because I’ve got a kind of…situation developing.”

“Jesus, Piz, just put down the alien slug or whatever and get over here to help scan!” Veronica says, exasperated. “In case you didn’t get the memo, I expressly forbade you to take samples!”

“Sure, I would, Veronica, you know I absolutely heard you and respect your authority, but the thing is… I’m currently kind of…stuck.”

“Of course you are!” Jackie throws her hands up in exasperation and checks her heel to see if the leather’s scratched. “The second I make it over that hill, you and your incompetent ass force me to turn and go right back.”

“Sometimes I wonder why I even joined Star Fleet.” Van Lowe squints up at the sky where a dust storm is gathering while unwrapping a stick of gum. “I was making a pretty good living smuggling phasers into the Orion Nebula. And you know, it’s all true what they say about those Orion dancing girls…”

“Ugh, fine, I’ll go.” Veronica tucks her tricorder purposefully away, and spins out of the tractor beam that’s Logan’s gaze. “Since the rest of you seem content to stand around and bitch. But this had better be an actual problem, Piznarski, and not another misguided attempt to ask me on a date!”

His response is muffled. Veronica rolls her eyes as she hikes back over the hill, hoping he didn’t get his hand stuck under a rock, or try to eat a native delicacy and go into anaphylaxis, since neither would be an unprecedented event.

“Wrong direction,” Logan says in her ear as he overtakes her and swerves right, turning around to walk backwards so he can better taunt. “All that time we spent passing notes in navigation class really has caused problems for you down the line.”

Her extended middle finger makes him laugh. Cook curses as she skids sideways on a spill of rocks, and Van Lowe calls, “Where’d that moron go? I don’t see nothin’ but a sixty-year old garbage heap.”

“There!” Logan points and takes off at a sprint, long legs eating the distance with an ease Veronica can’t match. “Wow, when he said he was stuck, he wasn’t kidding!”

He bends and begins to tug, and Veronica comes huffing up beside him to see he’s at the edge of a large, irregular pond. It’s filled with something brown and viscous, in lieu of water, from which one red-sleeved arm emerges, and half a head with a frantically rolling blue eye. In the hand is clutched a sample box, containing the slug Van Lowe, earlier, crushed.

“Careful,” Logan warns as Veronica steps up to help. “There are liquid-silicon sinkholes all around us, and this one seems both sentient and strong. Pretty sure I know what happened to those unfortunate colonists, and probably the ship we came to rescue.”

“Piz must have pissed it off somehow, poking around for samples.” Veronica watches as he’s yanked several inches out by Logan, and then, quickly, back. “Mars to transporter room, can you get a lock on Ensign Piznarski?”

“Uh, that’s a negative,” comes the reply—sounds like Ensign Douglas had a three-cocktail lunch. “Something seems to be shielding most of him from scans except for, uh, his hand.”

“Well, hell,” she says, as with a massive wrench, the pond yanks Piznarski free and gurgling, consumes him. The specimen box goes flying through the air and lands at Van Lowe’s feet. He steps on it.

They all look at each other, gauging group levels of upset. Eventually Echolls offers, “At least he died doing what he loved?”

“Being a pain in the ass?” Cook murmurs, and Van Lowe says, “Man, I need a vacation.”

Veronica peers up at the swirling, darkening sky and taps her communicator. “Mars to Valiant, four to beam up, we’ve got a storm about to hit. And Captain, are you available to discuss this situation ASAP in your ready room? We’ve discovered a new life form, solved the mystery of the missing ship…and I need some answers, pronto, about your reasons for hiring a certain Lieutenant Commander.”

Logan smirks at her as the four of them begin to shimmer. Then they’re whisked away, leaving behind only wreckage, a shred of red fabric, and swiftly growing cyclones of dust.


	2. DAY TWO: CANON DIVERGENCE

**Day 2:** **Canon Divergence (As themselves in altered canon storylines)**

Life’s been different in the Neptune Grand Presidential Suite since Meg Manning’s pregnancy started to show.

For one thing, Duncan’s around a lot more, albeit usually in a shitty mood. For another, since that last spectacular, metaphorical ass-reaming (performed, without mercy, in Logan’s full and gleeful view) Veronica’s stayed away.

Since his house is ash, Aaron’s assets are frozen, and his emancipation paperwork is tied up in court, Logan counts the misery of Neptune’s Romeo and Juliet a double win.

“Do you think I should call her?” Duncan sets down his controller to ask, for the zillionth time, causing his Mario Kart to crash against the course’s sidewall and spin uncontrollably.

“Nope.” Logan shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth and uses the opportunity to get ahead. “I mean, unless you ENJOY going straight to voicemail.”

“I just feel like,” Duncan flops back onto the couch to illustrate his angst, which moves Logan exactly none, “she loves me so much, you know? It must really be hurting her to keep her distance. I’m sure if I could just get her to talk to me, she’d forgive me, and then things would go back to normal.”

Logan’s got a pretty good idea of how much forgiveness Veronica Mars can muster, so he only snorts in response and keeps pretend-driving. “Here’s a radical idea,” he says. “If you want to do something constructive OTHER than bitching to me until my ears bleed, why don’t you call the mother of your child? Veronica might not want anything to do with you, but I’d bet the hypothetical farm Meg does.”

“She moved to Seattle to live with her Aunt,” Duncan says, glumly. “If she wanted anything to do with me, don’t you think she would have stuck around?”

Logan stares at his sad-sack roommate so long his own car crashes, because nobody can be this obtuse, right? But apparently he’s underestimated the self-absorption of the Kanes, again.

“What?” Making a ‘you weirdo’ face, Duncan gets up and goes into the kitchen for a beer. Doesn’t fetch one for Logan, natch. Re-seats himself on the couch, staring at the bottle and not uncapping, until Logan sighs loudly and starts playing again.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” After watching desultorily for a minute while his friend drives, Ducan makes the comment oh-so-casually. “Why don’t YOU call Veronica? Feel her out for me. Use that silver tongue of yours to help me bury the hatchet.”

_You want me to use my tongue on Veronica_ , Logan thinks, but somehow manages not to say. Because really, the mental image is distracting, and he’s done letting himself get distracted by heartless bitches who prefer THIS guy. So instead he snaps, “You know what? Fine.” Throws his controller backwards over the couch, and yanks out his phone to press the Mars Pest’s speed dial.

It rings twice, and he’s summoning smarm for the machine when she actually answers, breathless and huskily incredulous in a way that distracts yet more. “Logan?”

“Surprised?” He slides down the couch, stretching out his legs. “So am I. You actually picked up.”

“Figured you were probably in jail.” He tries not to smile at her tart tone. “Or, you know, being held at gunpoint.”

He shudders, because if she only knew. “Actually, I’m safe at home, playing Cyrano for the lovelorn. I’ve been asked to feel out your capacity for forgiveness.”

“By Duncan?” she snorts, and the smile solidifies at one corner of his mouth. “Is he waiting for you to repeat what I say?”

“Mmmm.” It’s a verbal shrug, noncommittal. “But speaking for myself, I’m all aquiver.”

“Which means yes. I want you to repeat this verbatim, then. I would rather screw you on the coffee table in front of him right now than ever, ever, ever consider taking him back. He impregnated someone else, dumped her when he found out, and never summoned the guts to even TELL me about it. And when I confronted him, he said the baby didn’t MATTER! Duncan is not the guy I thought he was. Frankly, as roommates go, you could do better, and I’m pretty sure your only other friend is Dick.”

She hangs up, just as briskly as she rapped out her crushing rejection, and Logan closes and pockets his phone. Gets up to walk around the couch while Duncan calls, “Spit it out! What happened? What did she say?”

“Well you should listen closely, because I’m pretty sure you’ve never heard this word.” Logan picks up the joystick, wipes Cheeto dust off with his shirttail, and vaults the couch to seat himself cross-legged. “But the answer was, emphatically, no.”

“You must have pissed her off,” Duncan decides, setting down the unopened beer and picking up his own controller. “I knew I should have asked someone else to call. You two are like matches and gasoline, these days. It’s almost as bad as Sophomore Year.”

Logan gazes at the coffee table reminiscently, considering how NOT like Sophomore Year that call felt, and murmurs, “You really have a way with metaphors, Dunc. And here I always thought Murphy gave you A’s ‘cause she was hot for your bod.”

“You are a sick, sick, disgusting man.” Duncan shakes his head, and Logan laughs. “Please don’t talk to or about women in my presence ever again.”

“Fair enough.” Logan grins as the finish line approaches and for once, he easily wins. “Next time I talk to a woman and hot bodies are mentioned, I’ll make 100% sure you’re nowhere to be found.”


	3. DAY THREE: BELOVED TROPES

**Day 3:** **Beloved Tropes (Friends to lovers! Mutual pining! Bed-sharing! Found family!)**

If Veronica has ever hated anyone half as much as she hates Logan Echolls right now, she’s blocked it out.

“I mean, I get the appeal,” he’s saying, although he can’t have missed the rage in her eyes. He gestures up and down at her sensible pantsuit with a lazy hand, lounges back in the hotel room’s only chair and picks up his Scotch. “You’re working the whole ‘eager-to-please Fed who’s secretly a head case’ vibe, which I’ve seen take down otherwise sensible men. But Veronica, and I say this with love—at present, you’re a fashion don’t. Let me at least hook you up with a stylist before our Big Day, so she can teach you the magic of tailoring.”

Baring her teeth at him, V whisks away the remote for which he’s reaching; switches to the most boring show she can find, a local city council meeting. They may be stuck in this Motel Six until he testifies, since Liam ‘the Mick’ Fitzpatrick had the bad sense to call in a hit during Logan’s high-stakes celebrity poker game. But she’s under no obligation whatsoever to make their time together fun.

“Echolls,” she says, perching on the one very-uncomfortable bed, “any expertise you may claim on the subject of appeal went right out the window this morning—when you woke up at ten, gargled with booze, tossed back a couple uppers and dressed in orange. You have the kind of issues that make my flaws seem wholesome, and I could not be LESS interested in your opinions.”

“So it’s settled.” He props his boots on the table where they have to eat because he knows it revolts her, and takes a meditative swallow. “You’re a badly-dressed bitch, I’m a substance-abusing dilettante, and the nice neighborhood by the high school’s getting speed bumps, because in THIS town, they care about kids.”

She turns to the city council meeting, where speed bumps are, in fact, under discussion; and even though she clenches her jaw against the urge, curiosity wins out. “How do you DO that?” she demands. “Pay attention to two different conversations at once? It’s probably your only skill, but you’re like a savant.”

He shrugs. “Preternatural awareness of my surroundings paid off, once upon a time,” he says, with false lightness. “Also, you know, not having to listen past a giant chip on my shoulder helps.”

A moment passes while she studies him in silence, and he ignores her and drinks. “Well I guess it’s lucky for us you did develop the talent,” she says at last, flopping backwards onto the coverlet and rubbing the heels of her hands against tired eyes. “Or you wouldn’t have earned yourself this plea deal–and we wouldn’t have the goods to go to trial.”

“Yeah, lucky is certainly how I feel this evening, stuck in a rural motel with you.” He drains his drink. “Pass me the bottle, if you can summon some manners. Maybe getting wasted will help the world seem brighter.”

She rolls to look at him, and with a mental shrug, gets up. Grabs the Lagavullin, plunks it on the table beside him, resumes her prone position. “If you’re shitfaced and try to run, you’ll be easier to catch.”

“First of all,” he says, and his voice sounds meditative rather than cutting, “with those short legs? You couldn’t catch me if you tried. Second, I’d be an idiot to flee. All I have to do is sit here and play nice, and I get off illegal gambling charges scot-free.”

“Maybe I should tie you to the chair, just to be safe,” she says, because being targeted for a hit makes men act unpredictably. “Then I could get some sleep, since it looks like Troy’s not coming to relieve me, again.”

“Troy is the WORST partner,” Logan murmurs, and Veronica silently agrees. “Honestly, you should sue. And for the record, if you’re tying me up, I’d prefer it be somewhere comfortable. Also I’d like you to wear lingerie, during.”

“Ew,” she says, although she can’t help picturing it. And maybe, if he were clean, sober, and not wearing that SHIRT, enjoying the process.

“If you want to take a nap,” he continues, and his voice has gone coaxing, now, in a way that’s seriously even more frustrating than sarcasm, “I won’t tell. I’ll even wake you before Troy shows his smugly-entitled face. God knows I’m in favor of any plan that might improve your mood.”

“It’s against regulations,” she says, but faintly. Because she’s been awake for seventy-two hours, and God knows when or even if Troy will show. “But deal. Give me your wrist.”

The bed shifts, dips, as he moves soundlessly across the room to sit beside her. Fishing for her cuffs, she cracks open her eyes to see his arm extended, fist loosely clasped. And behind it, his still-smirking face.

With a quick snick-and-snip she cuffs him to the headboard, then ooches to the far side of the mattress and throws an arm over her face. “Half an hour, max,” she says. “Gives you time to finish your bottle, learn a little something about local politics.”

“Sounds like a non-stop thrill ride.” He wiggles into a prone position, making his whole side of the bed sink; she has to fight not to roll towards him. “Hey, maybe they’ll discuss the scourge of jaywalking!”

_One can only hope_ , she thinks, but is too tired to verbalize. Up close, he doesn’t smell as bad as he should; more like guy, post-gym, than toxic drunk. Healthy sweat, that’s the term. Full of pheromones.

“Hey Echolls,” she asks, breath of sound. Able to admit, in the moment right before sleep, that once in a while something actually bothers her. “Did you really mean it, when you said my suit was a fashion don’t? Because it cost me $300 at Ann Taylor.”

“Truthfully?” he sounds amused, and his boozy breath fans her cheek as he rolls to face her. “Nah. But this situation we’ve got going…it’s complicated enough, what with your supervisors mishandling EVERYTHING, and the Fitzpatrick clan doing their level best to off me. Your interests and mine don’t align. So imagine how much worse things would be, if you actually DIDN’T hate me, and I was forced to do you dirty.”

“Imagine,” she says, on a sigh, somehow so exhausted she fails to be alarmed. Then promptly drifts off towards dreamland.

Just as awareness ends, his long muscled arm comes down across her waist, tucking her back into comforting warmth.

When she wakes, the keys she pocketed are on the pillow next to her face. It’s her wrist that’s cuffed to the headboard, and Echolls, despite his protestations, is long gone.


	4. DAY FOUR: ROLE REVERSAL

**Day 4:** **Role Reversal (Detective Logan! Navy Pilot Veronica! Gender Swap!)**

Veronica should have known better than to come back to Neptune.

It’s not like she was even expected. She could have flown in for the reunion the night before, flown out a couple days after, and continued the interviews with high-dollar, soulless firms so critical for law-school grads with loans.

But she was just…fried, after finishing her LSATS. And so sick of avoiding Piz’s wounded gaze, while she made yet another excuse for not meeting his friends or parents. A week of eating Dad’s lasagna and karaoke-ing with Wallace and Mac sounded like heaven by comparison.

And other than discovering, while out for a jog, that Mac lives three blocks from Dick Casablancas, then enjoying an awkward run-in with Luke Haldemann at the 7-11, the first part of her visit was peaceful.

Until last night, when she got an out-of-the-blue text from Carrie Bishop, containing the address of her gated mansion and a plea for Veronica’s special brand of help.

Now V’s sitting on a cot in a Neptune County Jail cell, hand bandaged from electric-shock burns, facing a five-million-dollar unpayable bond and a charge of murder in the first. And reflecting that, as cloying as Piz’s parents undoubtedly are, a visit to good old Beaverton would likely have turned out better.

The reinforced outer door clangs open; shaved weasel Dan Lamb jangles up, his face frozen in lines of outfoxed disapproval that ignite a spark of hope. “I don’t know how you did it, Mars.” He unlocks the cell with a jerk, gesturing smarmily for her to exit. “Or rather, I know how you probably did it, although you’re pretty scrawny for a femme fatale. But be that as it may…you made bail. I recommend hiring the best lawyer in America. And maybe selling your soul to the devil, if you want a chance in hell of staying free.”

She’d like to smarm back—several pithy retorts hover on the tip of her tongue—but she manages to swallow them. The lake of shit in which she’s sinking is deep. And this clown has more power over her, at present, than anyone named Lamb should.

So, “You’ve got the wrong girl,” is all she says, as she follows him down the hall. Clamps her lips shut when he scoffs, and prays Cliff’s been brushing up. Dad must have made some unsavory deal to come up with five mil—his house isn’t worth half that. One week back, and she’s ruined everyone’s life. Again.

Then she enters the station proper, and the reason she’s free becomes clear. Because Logan Echolls is leaning against a post with his arms crossed, looking like a sad, unshaven demigod in jeans and distressed leather (and not the Naval uniform she keeps secretly Googling). When he spots her, one corner of his mouth quirks in that smile that makes her jelly as he answers her unasked question. “Figured I owed you one. Or, possibly, ten.”

He gestures for her to precede him, courtly, throwing Lamb an unmissable glare; leads her, blinking, out into the sunlight, and (of course) a convertible blue BMW. “It’s not yellow,” she says, skimming the surface as she climbs in, and he actually laughs.

“Tragically,” he starts the engine and pulls out of the lot, away from nosy ears, “that color option was not offered. Nor was orange, so I had to adapt.”

“Wow, how…sensible.” She traces a finger along the elegant dash, fear and anger bubbling over. “Unlike your decision to bail me out. Why’d you do it, Logan? Are you really the only person who doesn’t think I killed her?”

He rolls his eyes—more subtly than he would have, last time she spoke to this once-boy-now-man. “You’re Veronica Mars,” he says, simply. “Are you capable of WANTING to murder any girl I date, ten years after the fact? I don’t mean to flatter myself, but…not beyond the realm of possibility. WOULD you, though? Never. Your most important and shining personality trait is an ethical core of steel.”

Tears well up, and she sets her hand atop his large and calloused one on the gearshift, threading her fingers between his knuckles. Squeezes. He squeezes back, turning to fix her with his God-so-intense, serious dark stare, and his voice goes slightly wonky. “Someone DID kill her, though. Someone who knew her well enough to get into her house—into her BATHROOM. And before that someone railroads you up the river, we need to find proof.”


	5. DAY FIVE: ANOTHER TIME PERIOD

**Day 5:** **Another Time Period (Pre-series AU! Victorian-Era Logan and Veronica! Post- _Mr. Kiss & Tell _future! Logan and Veronica in the Year 3000!)**

Logan Echolls, Duke of Somerset, is a dissipated fop. Everyone he’s ever met knows he doesn’t take his fortune seriously—that in fact, he’s doing his level best to burn through it before his inevitable untimely death. They further understand he only HAS the title in the first place because of his father’s fiduciary ‘favors’ to the crown, and isn’t one to put on airs.

(In point of fact, if the Crown were aware of the ‘favors’ Aaron did the king’s mistress, he’d have died in Marshalsea prison, not Bradley House.)

But there are a few corners of the realm where Logan is less known and more…avidly discussed. And this bit of nonsense holding a sword to his throat seems likely to spring from one of them.

He sighs, easing his Adam’s apple back from the needle-sharp tip, and gazes down at the small, square-jawed face, clenched before him in rigid fury. Wonders whether anyone watching expects a cad like himself to display ethics. The creature’s clad in a plum-velvet suit with breeches—some country squire’s son’s Sunday best—and looks about twelve, self-possession aside.

“Put that thing away,” he says finally, nudging the blade aside with one languid finger, “before you hurt someone. Based on your grip, most likely yourself.”

“It was YOUR man who stole my father’s horse,” the infant hisses from between a lot of very white teeth, epee’s point homing back on his throat. The blue gaze grows still icier. “Who stole my father’s PURSE, before he could carry our tenants’ taxes to the Sheriff. Your man’s the reason he’s languishing in jail–and I’ll kill you if you don’t get him out.”

“Well if my man requisitioned a thing or two, here and there,” Logan lounges back idly against the salon’s wall, wondering just what in Hades Dick’s been doing, “no doubt he had need.”

“My FATHER had need!” comes the predictable response. “As did our tenants, to follow the King’s own laws!”

Reaching into his pocket for his purse, Logan prepares to ask what cost was involved, and double the sum in reparation. But his assailant’s in a temper, and keeps right on talking. “And although your man SAID he was going to a cockfight with his ill-gotten gains, I’m sure he told a lie. I’ve been following him, AND you…and I think the two of you are SPYING for the FRENCH.”

Face hardening, body going still, Logan abandons ideas of mercy. “THAT,” he says, straightening from his slump, so the twerp has to jerk the point of the sword back or cut his throat, “is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” He makes a flicking motion, scattering the cards in his hand, lace swishing around his wrist. Paces forwards, his diminutive attacker retreating before him. “Everyone within earshot understands I’m incapable of anything constructive. And besides, you oughtn’t go about accusing others of deception. You’ve walked into a bachelor’s gaming party without invitation, my dear. And it’s my belief you’re neither a child…nor a boy.”


	6. DAY SIX: HOLIDAY AU

**Day 6:** **Holiday AU! (Pick a holiday, any holiday - Valentine’s Day? Great! Arbor Day? Let’s plant a tree!)**

It’ll be a month, tomorrow, since Lilly died.

A month of fog and funerals—of ending up in rooms, and not remembering how she got there. Of watching Duncan go vacant and Logan rage, and her mother hit the bottle like she never has before.

Veronica thought the very worst of it was past. Not the pain, no, but those moments when she felt like she couldn’t breathe, when she was genuinely afraid Logan would off himself in an overdramatic show of grief.

But then today, someone leaked the crime-scene video to the internet. And she subsequently discovered how much farther she had to fall.

She’s here, now, at Logan’s pool house, having sneaked onto the property after discovering the gate codes were changed, to proclaim her innocence, to explain. Since Duncan turned into a zombie, Logan’s the only real friend she has left, and the idea that he might reject her now is…

Unthinkable.

But when she eases past the Aaron-printed curtains, through the dark and silent bedroom, and into the den where many a long-gone party has raged, he’s engaged in some strange and arcane ritual that banishes argument from her mind. Pulls an involuntary protest from her lips.

“Logan, what are you DOING?”

“I,” he says, without turning around, without expressing surprise at unexpected company (but WITH, of course, the showy double-hand-flourish that’s Logan’s trademark), “am making an offrenda.”

“A what?” she asks, but apparently he’s done talking. He goes back to arranging flowers, old photos and what appear to be bowls of Corn Nuts on the corner bar, stepping around the shards of whatever he swept off first. He weaves a little—it goes without saying, these days, that he’s blackout levels of drunk—then steadies himself with a hand against the wall. “Is this like…a shrine?”

“It’s the Day of the Dead, Mars.” He fumbles a framed photo of Lilly, but manages to catch it and set it tenderly back. “Lady at the corner store told me all about this stuff when I went to buy beer. The dead cross over if you put up an altar. If you  remember…who they were.”

“Logan,” she says, because his voice aches, but he shoots her a look of warning so virulent she knows better than to sympathize. “You know that’s just a superstition from some other culture’s holiday, right? How much have you had to drink?”

“Why, you want some? Got an urge to follow in old Lianne’s staggering footsteps?” He jerks a thumb towards the bottles lined up on the coffee table. “Take whatever and go. You know you’re not welcome here.”

“It wasn’t me.” She moves a step back from his venom. “Or my dad. We didn’t leak the video, Logan, I swear to you. We would NEVER do something so vile.”

“But your mother would.” He whirls to face her, and she notes with no little concern he’s holding a pocket knife. “Right? Didn’t she just flee into the night, like, yesterday?” he makes a scurrying gesture with his free hand. “Don’t you think the pot of money she’d earn from such a deal would come in handy, on her upcoming booze-soaked adventures? Tell me she’s incapable of betraying her loved ones. I’ll call you a liar.”

Veronica’s gaze flicks nervously to the knife, and his smirk broadens, turns ugly. “What, you’re afraid of me now, too? Wow, Veronica, when you decide to ditch a friendship, you really go whole-hog.”

He grabs up an open beer bottle from the table, tips it to empty the backwash onto the carpet. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, the knife’s for me. I may not know shit about the Day of the Dead, but I DO know I have to pay for anything good with blood. Nobody up there listens if I ask, pretty-please.”

With a detachment that seems more frightening than anything prior, he neatly slices open his palm. Squeezes it into a fist over the bottle’s mouth and watches blood ooze, slowly, down. “You should get out of here,” he says, cocking his head at the sound of a car pulling into the garage. “The world’s even more fucked up than I thought, and I’m no longer interested in protecting you from the worst. If your family can’t side with the people who gave you everything, Ronnie, you need to learn consequences.”

She gazes at him, sweaty hair and bleeding hand, round baby cheeks and angry eyes. His orange shirt is stained with God-knows-what, and he’s always been the wolf that kept other wolves away. “I don’t want to leave you like this,” she says.

“Everybody leaves me.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Rats off a sinking ship. Shoo, before I make you sorry. And from now on, keep your fucking distance.”

He turns, places the bottle on the makeshift altar, near the photo dead-center of him kissing Lilly’s cheek. Wipes his cut hand absently on his shirt. Veronica knows he gets that murder victims don’t come back, knows he’s just making another scene. Knows his angry thrashing is, like her frantic cleaning, an attempt to restore normalcy–and if he’s determined to self-destruct, he’s going to find a way. But the rejection still hurts.

And makes her more determined than ever to fight back.

Marching over to the cabinet by the TV, she yanks out a first-aid kit, throws it at him. He fumbles it this time, but bends to pick it up. “Just so you’re aware,” she warns, through gritted teeth, “I’m leaving now because it’s your house, and I’ve said what I came to say. But for the record, I don’t care how badly you behave, do you hear me? You’re the only person left in my life who understands how I feel. And you’re never going to chase me off for good, no matter how hard you try.”

“Is that a dare?” he calls after her, as she storms out of the pool house, down the walk to her Le Baron, but she doesn’t reply. Just slams the car door, and drives too fast out of the quiet 09.

She calls Lynn on her way home; leaves a message that Logan had an accident cutting an apple, and might need stitches.


	7. DAY SEVEN: YOU SHOULD ONLY WEAR THIS

**Day 7:** **“You Should Only Wear This” (Make it sweet, make it smutty, make it refer to their astronaut suits since they’re co-workers in space, just find a way to incorporate the famed movie quote into your fic.)**

There’s almost nothing on Earth Logan would rather do LESS than take his family to Disneyland.

It’s not just the creepy/cutesy factor, the long and airless lines. Not even the constant chaos, or food nobody fit should eat. It’s the fact that he’s so fucking famous now, for reasons both wholesome and non-, he can’t take ten steps out of the house free of Birkenstock-and-fanny-pack-clad fans. And while his temper’s cooler than it used to be, thank God, his aversion to this type hasn’t waned.

But Tony lost the role of Prince Charming in the school play to possibly the only kid alive more handsome than himself, and Peanut broke up with her long-term boyfriend for reasons unspecified. And Veronica…well, she’s ALWAYS willing to strap on mouse ears and ride the roller coasters, while eating her weight in cotton candy.

So here he stands, inching forward in the Space Mountain line like he has been for forty-five minutes. He’s holding a sweating Coke belonging to his eldest, and wearing the feathered pirate hat his youngest demanded–then abandoned in favor of star-shaped antennae. To his left, his wife (and GOD does he love calling her that) is munching on a Slim Jim, looking a little sunburned in the nose area. To his right, his kids are arguing about something called Kingdom Hearts, and whether lack of interest in a Keyblade means one character is secretly gay.

Or something. He’s not really paying attention, and come on, who could blame him? Instead, he’s trying NOT to notice the couple whispering a few feet up the line, glancing at him repeatedly like they’re gathering nerve.

“So, Dread Pirate Roberts.” Veronica mercifully provides distraction, nudging him with her shoulder. “What do you think, after this? Cool off with some Steamboat Willie in the Main Street Cinema, or locate a restaurant that serves very large beers?”

“There will be no after this, pumpkin.” He inches forward a step, putting a hand between Tony and Peanut so they’ll stop poking each other. “We’re stuck in this line for all eternity. They’ll have to buckle our corpses into the seats, if no one eats us first, to survive.”

“Morbid!” says his twenty-three-year-old daughter, who in the last month has A) dyed her hair turquoise B) acquired a nose ring and C) returned from a gap year building houses in Costa Rica, only to enroll in a useless Master’s Art History program. “And just for the record, I’m in favor of the beers.”

Logan contains his eye roll, Veronica nudges him again, and Tony says, “I don’t think it’s fair to make plans based on activities in which I can’t participate.”

“It’s less a plan, and more a dream that gives us hope,” he tells the kid, reaching out to ruffle his hair, remembering the antennae. Ruffles those instead, and they bounce above his serious small face in ludicrous contrast. “Tell you what, you let us enjoy our beers in peace, and you can have ONE of those extra-large drinks with the red dye that make you hyper. God knows you’ll need all the energy you can get, if we’re going to live through this day.”

“Famous last words,” Veronica says, as Tony pumps a fist in victory, then high-fives his sister. They move four whole inches forwards in the interminable line. “It’s weird how you almost seem not to LIKE amusement parks these days, honey bunch. Especially since I recall a time, not so many years past, when your enthusiasm knew so few bounds it got prom cancelled.”

“And then I threw an entire private dance, just so I could invite you.” He smiles reminiscently. “Note to Peanut: DO date a man willing to make an extravagant ass of himself to please you, but do NOT date men who get wasted to work up the nerve.”

“Wow, you are subtle.” Peanut accepts the JuJuBes her mother pulls from her formidably-stocked purse, gives some to Tony. “Still not spilling details RE my recent breakup, Captain Sabotage–and I think you and I both know exactly WHY.”

“Nobody can prove I sabotaged your high school boyfriend’s anything.” Logan takes his own handful of JuJuBes, shoves them in his mouth. “Because actually it was your mother, and she covers her tracks.”

“Personally, I’m single by choice,” Tony says, a statement Logan’s allowed to find funny because he’s a goody-two-shoes like his mother (and not…anything like his father, at all). “Right now it’s more important I concentrate on my art.”

The kid’s brow darkens as he recalls his reason for being at Disneyland in the first place; but the already-familiar diatribe about unfair casting based on height goes unsaid, as the watching/whispering autograph hounds choose this moment to pounce.

“So sorry to intrude,” puts in the female half, after shoving past several park guests to do just that. She’s sixtyish and maternal, with a cheerful, overly-made-up face and an already-stained ‘I Rode the Matterhorn’ t-shirt. “I can’t help but ask, though…are you, by any chance, Commander Log….”

“You know, he gets that ALL the time,” Peanut interjects, causing Veronica to cross her arms and smirk at the unlikelihood of a diversion working. “Must be the nose. You have a real naval hero’s nose, don’t you dad? It’s both a blessing and a curse.”

“Yes, because there is only one kind of nose heroes can possess,” Logan says, dry. “And it’s the type on all the coins, obviously.”

“Sure, well, it’s very nice and…straight,” the woman says, dubious. “But like I was saying, my daughter is such a HUGE fan, and she would just LOVE to see a selfie…”

“Oh, no pictures!” Peanut makes an emphatic hand gesture, glancing covertly at the pirate hat. The line inches forwards, and they all scoot along with it. “His purpose for being here is TOP secret, and we just can’t jeopardize his sensitive mission to accommodate well-meaning social-media requests.”

“Yes, but, it’s Disneyland.” the woman glances behind her dubiously, as if re-confirming the existence of Space Mountain. “So I don’t see why…”

Veronica opens her mouth to take care of things in inimitable Veronica fashion, but Tony talks right over her; his bored tone wouldn’t seem out of place at the Oh-Niner. “Come on, Leilani, it’s just a selfie,” he says. “We took like a million of them with the cast of the new Star Wars movie, five minutes ago and right outside. Too bad you two didn’t run across us then—it was a promotional thing. They were recording voice mail messages and handing out prizes.”

The woman’s eyes go huge. “Right outside?” she repeats. “Just now?” Then wheels and retreats to whisper furiously at her companion, while simultaneously texting. Rapidly, they exit the line and make for the door; Veronica turns a look on her son that’s frankly impressed.

“Wow, Tiger, didn’t know you had it in you.” Peanut gives a thumbs-up, appropriating more JuJuBes and taking her coke back from Logan. “Nice one!”

“I told you,” Tony says, affecting disinterest but shooting a look Loganward. “I’ve been practicing my craft. Recent casting notices notwithstanding.”

“Well you sure as shit just proved it.” Logan pats his shoulder, obliging the need for praise. Because despite his distaste for theater, he DOES appreciate Veronica-esque hidden depths–and it delights him that his overly-formal kid might have some. “Your drama teacher must be smoking something behind the bleachers. Because you can clearly act circles around that awkwardly-tall, early-growth-spurt clown who got the part.”

Tony grins, displaying the gap between his front teeth he normally hides. “You guys want to blow this off? Get your beers before they figure out I was lying and come back?”

“Nope,” Logan says, popping the p, and gestures with his chin at the now-nearby ride. “We’ve waited this long already, and you just got big enough to be allowed a seat. First, we roller-coast, and hopefully don’t barf up all this candy your mother’s feeding us. THEN we get beers, and maybe buy the man of the hour a double order of fries?”

Tony high-fives Peanut again, trying not to look too excited, and Veronica smiles at Logan like he just beat someone up for her. “You,” she says, “turned out to have excellent dad skills…in addition to being the Roman-nosed pirate who stole my heart.”

“You’re going to make me wear this hat all day, aren’t you?” He bends to kiss her sunburned face, snatching the rest of the JuJuBes as he does so. “What is it with you and weird headgear on special occasions, anyway?”

“Hats are festive.” She bats her lashes, urging the kids to ooch forwards as they approach the front of the line. “And besides, dashing accessories suit you. Honestly, you should ONLY wear that. Like, EVER.”

“Famous last words,” he parrots, putting an arm around her so he can stroke her spine. Then they reach the turnstile, Tony’s face lights up in anticipation, and the family that loves roller coasters gets a well-earned moment in the sun.


	8. LV AU WEEK DAY 4, 2019—DANCE WITH ME

After returning Jake’s hard drive, lining up loans, and voting futilely in county elections, Veronica finally put Neptune in the rear-view. Goodbyes weren’t her thing, so she sent them via email, then ignored regret as she closed the account. Because the guilt she felt about fleeing the metaphorical scene was HER burden, right? She’d brought nothing but trouble to friends and loved ones. If she didn’t steer clear until she kicked the adrenaline urge, one of them might end up dead.

Stanford was lonely, pretentious, and cold, but the upside was, no one knew her. She lost herself entirely in boring minutiae—felt safe, for the first time in years.

At least she did until Nish Sweeney sued the Castle for violating her constitutional rights. In retrospect, V’s double-major workload that first semester was just the calm before the storm.

The suit’s defendants—every powerful man who’d ever pledged—saw their names published worldwide, focus of breathless cable punditry. And while Nish refused to reveal sources…it wasn’t a mystery to those with connections. Fallout, for Veronica, was both devastating and predictable.

Which is why she’s sitting in a San Diego Bennigan’s with recently-ousted Sheriff Van Lowe…forking over her last five hundred bucks for a report on her friends’ fates.

“Y’know, I thought, perhaps foolishly, once upon a time, you’d never top that stunt with the Kane kid,” Vinnie informs her, slumping against the pleather buffet to sip suspect coffee. He’s the same as he ever was, down to the beige Members Only jacket—his brief stint of faux-respectability left no trace. “But I gotta tell you, VMars, this mess is above and beyond.”

_WALLACE FENNEL,_ she reads _, passport difficulties returning from Uganda—suspected association with Lord’s Resistance Army. Hearst revoked scholarship in response. Eventually cleared to return, but remains on a watch list. Currently employed under the table as dishwasher at Mama Leone’s, inability to obtain legal work._

“I gave the disk drive BACK.” V clenches her jaw to contain emotion. “Jake and I made a DEAL. No way should Wallace have to pay for my mistakes. He’s the best person I know!”

“And the rest of them are what, chopped liver?” Vinnie’s brows quirk, sardonic. “Mackenzie had to sign a twenty-year non-compete clause, she’s trapped at Kane Software till she retires. Just saying, indentured servitude’s no picnic.”

“Wow, it really IS the apocalypse if YOU’RE throwing stones,” she snaps, scanning the page.  _ELI ‘WEEVIL’ NAVARRO, currently serving ten years in RJD correctional facility, San Diego, for felony fraud of Hearst Cafeteria Services. Accomplices in obtaining tech to commit crime suspected--no arrests made thus far._ “These abuses of power are textbook examples of the flaws in our society.”

“Ah, great, now we’re getting philosophical.” He gestures with his mug at the file. “Look at the bright side, at least your dad’s a free man. Let me tell you, having done a stint as disgraced Sheriff myself? Things coulda gone a whole lot worse.”

“A free man with his PI license revoked.” She grimaces. “If Lloyd hadn’t come through with that lame research job at the paper, he wouldn’t be able to make rent.”

“Hey cash is cash.” Vinnie shrugs, and V reflects that life must be so much simpler without morals. “And speaking of…does it strike you as strange Echolls still has his? You lost your grants, and the other folks you paid me to check out? Impoverished. But while this fine son of Hollywood’s hired every bodyguard in Cally to shield him from the Russians, no one’s gone after his millions. Smells to me like he’s complicit.”

“Not so much.” She traces Logan’s name with one fingertip. “Just in Jake Kane’s good graces, unlike yours truly. He did his damndest to get his own dad convicted for killing Lilly. That kind of loyalty pays dividends.”

“As I recall, you put in some effort toward that end yourself.” Vinnie sets his cup down, next to the coaster instead of on top, natch. “’Course you also disappeared his son, so maybe he doesn’t find that circumstance…extenuating.”

“Based on recent events, I’m guessing no.” She shakes off regret with a toss of hair. “But last I checked, Jake Kane wasn’t king. He doesn’t get to ruin my friends for spite.”

“And you’re planning to stop him with what?” Vinnie folds his arms. “Charm and vivacity? Five bucks and a discontinued Taser?”

“By pitting him, and every Castle member who’s complicit, against each other. Battle to the death, may the most ruthless capitalist win.” She smiles, without humor. “Luckily, I have ONE Faith-Kane-kidnapping-ally whose role HASN’T been exposed…yet. And who’s just the right amount of sketchy to play Igor to my evil genius.”

She shoots Vinnie a pointed look--he responds with exasperated-duck face. “And before you ask how I’ll fund this venture…well. As you just pointed out, I only know one person with money. What say we find out who Logan would rather dance with this time--the Kanes, or me? Hopefully, for once, he has the sense to side with a winning team.”


	9. DAY 5, 2019—A LINE IN THE SAND

He hates her. He fucking LOATHES her and her fatally-flawed cool/smug act, impervious to HIS gestures of revenge…but crumbling the second he’s slow to stand. The stupid worry line between her brows, her high, sharp voice snapping, “Let him go!” the second he bleeds; he doesn’t need her thinly-disguised concern. He wants her boiling with rage and ready to fight like he is, and he could do without other people in between.

_At least my nose isn’t broken,_ he thinks, snapping the mirrored visor closed; Enbom peels out of the beach lot, spewing whiny words about mommy’s precious car to which Logan fails to listen. Thanks to Aaron’s notions of discipline, the level of Percocet in his bloodstream’s high. But there will probably be bruising, and his father HATES facial bruising. This adventure was meant to pay Veronica back for her latest vicious game…not dig the hole in which he’s floundering deeper.

Eli Navarro, he decides (powering down the window, despite Enbom’s protests, so he can get some fucking air) has become a problem. The guy’s always lurked at the fringes, fixating and/or trying to prove God-knows-what, mostly easy to ignore. Now though—he’s sniffing around Veronica, and Logan can’t have that. For one thing, the jerkoff’s dangerous, which she doesn’t seem to get. And for another, Logan drew a line in the sand between V and everyone else, and until she comes crawling back, he’ll goddamn well enforce it.

“She’s gonna cut off my allowance…” Enbom moans as he slows for a stop light, and abruptly the sense of suffocation grows overwhelming.

“You know what?” Logan says, and demonstrates what by flinging open his door. “Nice day for a stroll, I’m thinking. You assholes have fun back at day care.”

He climbs out, grabbing his flask from the cup holder where it’s tilted, salutes his not-really-friends with two fingers. Strides back down the hill towards the beach, chugging bourbon as he goes.

The incline’s steep, he staggers but stays upright. His feet sink into sand as he makes his way down the dune, it spills into the tops of his Sketchers. He can feel each grain pressing his sockless soles as he follows the curve of the road, back in the direction he came. Towards Dog Beach, and the cove where unfinished business remains.

It’s hot enough to make anyone, but especially him, sweat, so he ties his hoodie around his waist; polishes off the booze he’s brought and pitches his flask towards the water. Better keep his hands free, in case Navarro’s decided to linger. It’s a public beach, it’s daytime, but Veronica’s gotten into HIS car with no just-in-case friend plenty of times—only Navarro doesn’t own a car, does he? Just a motorcycle, and a bunch of idiot/thug friends possessing same. Whereas Veronica’s five-foot-nothing, and her pal no doubt regularly gets sand kicked in his face.

Logan thinks about the not-actually-suggestive bong she left in his locker as he walks--smooth and white, clearly meant to be emasculating. The taunt a girl who knows fuck-all about sex would try, an almost endearingly innocent misfire…except it got his car locked up and his back laid open. She seemed so proud, too, rushing up to watch his walk of shame, pointing at herself with ‘Who, me?’ quirked brows, like maybe he’d burst into panicked tears. He doubts he’s ever been that naïve. And it’s infuriating to recall how he used to find her pwnage fails adorable, to STILL feel residual twinges, even as he vows to make her pay.

Cresting the hill, he spots the rust bucket she optimistically calls a convertible, still parked but no longer encircled by ne’er-do-wells. His heartbeat picks up as he spots her dorky new friend, singular, walking away—guy’s got a manila envelope clutched in one hand, a toy airplane in another, and there’s no pesky pint-sized nemesis in sight. Then he realizes she’s slumped in her driver’s seat, discernable past the headrest only by sunlight glinting off fair hair.

Logan exhales, slowly, tension not leaking away so much as…transmuting. He moves up the dune from behind her car, pausing to tilt his head sideways, crack his neck. Consider his next move. So many possibilities--but before he can decide, she spots him in the side mirror and spins.

“What are you doing back here?” Her clear, high voice carrying across the lot, and a smirk twitches the corner of his mouth. Because THIS is what he wanted when he hitched a ride with the gate guard to Pep Boys and bought a tire iron. Her, all aggressive and defiant. Him, with a slight upper hand. No whiny-ass 09’ers whose cars WEREN’T embargoed, no gang members from the 02 with chips on their shoulders. No new-in-town-kids who haven’t yet learned that being taped to a flagpole is Neptune SOP.

Nobody to stop the confrontation that’s been boiling inside him for months, only he and V are never alone. Never allowed to be alone. She’s got that much sense, at least--and at school, Montagues and Capulets can’t mix.

She eases out of the car, hand sliding into the purse pocket where he knows she keeps that taser. A thrill goes through him…outrage, anticipation or sweet adrenaline, he’s not sure. Her chin tilts up; and in an impressive show of bravado, she quips, “Desperate for round two with Weevil Navarro? Won’t you ever learn to stay down?”

“If I’d played dead,” he counters, sidling closer, “Weevs would’ve started KICKING. Nice crowd you’re mixed up with, by the way. What’s next on the social agenda, selling crack for your PCH pals over the grade-school fence?”

“You don’t get to comment on any friends I choose,” she snaps, and he snorts; if she considers Navarro a FRIEND, she really is naïve. “Besides, you and your gang of rich wake-and-bakers are no better. At least Weevil bases grudges in reality.”

“Oh, we’re still pretending I’ve got no reason to dislike you?” He steps up, getting right in her face-- her quick breaths on his cheek raise goosebumps. “Poor, sweet, blonde Veronica, innocent victim of bullying. Maybe the rubberneckers buy your act…but both of us know YOU started this feud. And you keep on upping the ante, without ever explaining WHY.”

“Excuse me?” her plump pink upper lip curls, baring her teeth; he can count every eyelash she’s got from here. “Only in your fevered and possibly-concussed imaginings! I walked into school, the day after the crime-scene video leaked, and it was like I’d stopped EXISTING. Don’t tell me that scheme wasn’t yours…orchestrating a good shunning is your signature move. Even though you chased everyone else away, though, you can’t manage to keep your distance. Can you, Logan? Because it’s just no fun tormenting someone who doesn’t pay attention.”

Her words are a dare, or at least they fucking feel like one, and whatever’s been building inside him abruptly boils over. Because AS IF she’s not paying attention, and OF COURSE he could walk away--only he’s not going to until she caves. Until she admits she wants nothing more than to get past his velvet ropes. And SHE’S the one who can’t stop staring.

He quirks his brows, silent mockery of this statement, which makes her jaw clench. Plants both palms deliberately on the trunk, surrounding her with his body. Tilts his head, bringing his face near the join of her neck and shoulder, then releases a breath, hot on the bare patch of skin. All the air shudders out of her lungs and he smiles…because this is the tell he’s been craving. Proof she’s not secretly praying for him to shut up and get out of her face. Proof she craves this tension between them, too.

The space between their skins feels hot, goosebumps break out across his chest. Logan’s hips shift, restless, this cocktail of sensation’s one-hundred-fifty-proof. But before he can draw back, self-protective, her hand twists in his shirt--yanks, unthinking, at his chest hair. He gasps because it hurts, mouth falling open, and she launches up on tiptoe and presses her lips to his.

There’s a buzzing in his head, circuits melting, maybe, as her eager little tongue slicks past his teeth. Then he’s closing in around her, gripping her waist and lifting, pressing deeper into heat and confusion and chaos--she makes him crave the sting. He’s ravenous, it’s all a fog, he wants to get beneath her skin and devour, and she’s actively encouraging his lack of control. The kiss is so fucking hot, he stops caring about the whole public-beach-and-daylight thing; he ought to slow down, think for once, but instead he just…surrenders.

She’s the one who ends it, an eternity of brainless sensation later, murmuring, “Oh, GOD,” against his lips and pulling ever-so-slightly back. They stare at each other for a long, distended moment—her eyes are huge, unfocused, and he feels zero regret. Then she ducks her head and twists sideways, disentangling, and he lifts his hands, palms out, to let her go.

Veronica Mars is cutthroat—not one to justify herself, let alone make excuses—so she wastes no time explaining. Just climbs into the car and, after one last, somehow-plaintive glance, revs the engine. Does a slow-and-awkward loop around him as he stands, hands in pockets, watching…then accelerates out of the lot.

Clearing his throat, he turns to gaze over the water, squinting against the cloud-blocked setting sun. Tumblers click in his head, moments that never made sense come clear. He realizes again that he’s hot, hair and shirt sun-baked—and standing alone mid-asphalt like a dumbass, no water or ride home in sight.

Logan locates his phone in the wrong pocket and calls Aaron’s chauffeur--requests a pickup in ten along with several bottles of soda. Then he crosses to the stone wall separating lot and beach, sits atop; tilts his head back, eyes closed, accepting discomfort. And contemplates, as he waits, all the myriad pleasurable ways he could make V admit this wasn’t at all a mistake.


	10. DAY 6, 2019--CONFESSIONS

WEDNESDAY MARCH 13--CONFESSIONS

It’s not easy, Veronica’s finding, to cook Coq au Vin in a stamp-sized Brooklyn kitchen without using magic. The roaster she bought doesn’t fit in the oven, there’s no counter space to arrange her mise-en-place, and whenever Piz sidles in to ‘help’ she can’t maneuver past him to the breakfast nook.

He’s out in her—no, as of last week, THEIR—living room right now, ferrying LP’s out of boxes filling half her closet so he can ‘curate’ tonight’s music selection. She’s not clear why he insists on using records instead of MP3’s…it must be one of those non-warlock traits that eludes her. He says scratches make the sound ‘more authentic’.

After checking the chicken that’s browning in butter, she consults the Julia Child cookbook propped against the wall…only to watch it fall shut, again, scattering a pile of diced onions in the process. She slaps it back open, exasperated, sticks a can of tomatoes on top to mark the page, and confirms she needs to plate the meat before flaming the pan with Cognac. So she hefts the pan, which really is enormous, dumps its contents onto a platter, then tosses a cup of booze inside.

Flames surge out, licking close to the ceiling, and a gout of smoke billows everywhere. She shrieks, glances surreptitiously at the closed door, then wiggles her nose to extinguish them. Waves away fumes with a grimace and realizes the fire alarm’s going off.

_Shit,_ she thinks, as just outside Piz calls, “Honey, what’s wrong?” Turns, silencing the ruckus with a flick of her fingers, and knocks the platter to the ground in the process.

“Shit, shit, SHIT,” she reiterates, under her breath, then raises her voice to call, “Just a little smoke, sweetie, no big deal!” At which point, the doorbell rings. She buries her face in her hands.

“Novel dinner party idea,” says a sardonic voice behind her, making her jerk. “Serving your guests off the floor, with the added bonus of china shards? These humans love to live on the edge.”

She spins, and there’s Logan, perched at a negligent angle on the kitchen counter. With a wave, he reassembles the laden platter and floats it gently back to the table. “Look at you all domestic in an apron—there’s flour on your nose,” he says. “If it wasn’t for the pissed-off expression I’d hardly recognize you.”

“Logan, what are you DOING here?” she looks over her shoulder at the door in dismay. “Piz doesn’t…I never…our GUESTS just arrived!”

“Mmm, some guy with sideburns in a porkpie hat, and an orange-haired consumptive wearing what looks like a velvet sofa. They’re currently discussing whether public transit is ecologically sound, or…something. I dozed off trying to listen.”

“You’re not ALLOWED to listen!” She snaps to snuff the burner as a pot of artichokes boils over. “You’re not supposed to be PRESENT! How’d you even figure out where I am? I specifically told…”

She breaks off and he smirks. “…your mother not to rat you out? I figured. Unfortunately—for you—she had a few too many brews at the last All-Clan coven meeting. It took remarkably little effort to get her to spill.”

He shrugs, faux-casual; she huffs frustration and returns to her cookbook. Picks up the can that’s slid off the page and slams it down atop. “You should have spared yourself the effort,” she says. “I’m not going back, I’m sick of politics. The last time I ran afoul of Celeste Kane, she turned me into a penguin! Sitting on a nest, in Antarctica!”

“Never piss off the head witch,” Logan says, with an unhelpful lack of sympathy. “Although you’ve got to admit, it makes sense an icy wasteland’s her go-to.”

“Ugh!” she says, because he’s making her want to laugh…and she doesn’t have TIME for jokes, she’s on a SCHEDULE. She smacks the counter, which makes the can clatter to the floor again, and the book flutter shut. “Just fly back to whatever cloud you were lounging on with all your elitist friends, before some urge to mess with me got the better of you. You’re not my boyfriend anymore!”

“Veronica?” Piz calls, knocking on the door. Logan rolls his eyes and vanishes with a snap. She turns, pasting a smile on her face and smoothing her apron, as Piz twists the knob and peers through the crack. “I heard a loud noise, is everything okay?”

God, he’s wearing that plaid sport coat again—the pink and purple one he says is ironic—over a perfectly respectable black t-shirt. She grits her teeth to contain comments, since this is a topic about which she’s short-tempered and he’s sensitive; manages, instead, to twinkle. “Just…cooking dinner! Take some wine to the Braufman-Jenningses for me, would you? As soon as I get this in the oven I’ll be out to say hi.”

Piz edges past her to the pantry to find a bottle, frowns down at the screw top. “Veronica, I thought we agreed that corks were biodegradable, and therefore a better purchase despite the cost? I mean, if I serve this to Arlo and Candace, won’t they think I’m an insensitive consumer?”

His ever-apologetic face grows even more pleading, and she crooks a finger surreptitiously behind her back. “Piz Piznarski, how many sour-cherry-basil mojitos did you have, arranging records? That bottle’s as corked as they come.”

This prompts a re-assessment, followed by a double take—he’s startled by the cork, and maybe also the vastly-improved quality. “Uh, wow! I just had the one drink, because you know. Radio personality, gotta watch those carbs. Only…” he pauses to glance at the door, and lowers his voice to a whisper. “You didn’t…change this wine using your…you know…M-word, right? Because we DID discuss how those abilities give you an unfair relationship advantage. And how they aren’t necessarily a skillset regular people would…understand?”

“Nope!” She crosses her heart with one finger. “Just good, old-fashioned smart shopping! A happy and ecologically-conscious, completely-unremarkable helpmate, that’s me!”

“Okay then,” he says, annoyingly dubious. “If you say so, I believe you. Now I assume you unpacked my Rabbit corkscrew, and also the aerator, and the…”

Veronica magics a tray containing every conceivable wine accessory onto the table behind him, then points. He turns, frowns harder, but gathers it up anyway, setting the bottle atop. “All right I’ll just…let this breathe. Don’t be long, okay honey? The conversation out there is REALLY on point tonight.”

Sighing, she re-ignites the burner, and dumps the meat and vegetables into the roaster. Stirs, lackluster, before letting go of the spoon to check the cookbook. Then notices the spoon’s still moving in neat circles, all by itself.

“Oh my GOD!” She plants hands on hips. “Did you actually even leave? Or were you invisible and snooping this whole time, as usual?”

Logan appears with a snap, leaning against the cabinets across the room…IE three feet away. Gestures, making the cookbook fly into the air and open to the correct page, then folds his arms. “If you have to ask,” he says, “I’ll doubt whether you ever really knew me. As IF I’d leave you to play chef for a bunch of pretentious humans, without first making an effort to bring you to your senses. This is beneath you, Veronica. You could conjure up a five-course gourmet meal with a wave of your hand. And Jizz out there, in addition to being a douche who finds you threatening, looks like he time-traveled from an eighties yuppie bar!”

“Oh, you’re one to talk. Half your wardrobe is orange.” She goes on tiptoe to check the recipe, then adds belatedly, “And his name is PIZ.”

“Whatever he calls himself, he redefines the term loser. And not in an upwards direction. Why are you even living here, Veronica? What do you mistakenly believe you’re proving by renting this…closet,” he spreads his arms in a gesture that almost spans the room, “and performing manual labor? Not to mention dumping ME, only to date the definition of vanilla?”

“I just want to be NORMAL for a while, okay?” Her voice comes out louder than planned, and she turns her back so she can get it together. “I’d like a chance to cook things, and vacuum, and finally figure out how garage doors open without magic. And NOT have to constantly dodge omnipotent beings carrying thousand-year-old grudges.”

“Or longtime boyfriends who made the mistake of hinting, just once, that maybe they wanted commitment?” he asks, very softly.

“Don’t pretend you’re not relieved,” she says, resisting the urge to turn around. “If I commit to you, it’s literally forever. You, who’s got every hot witch on the planet vying for your attentions. And who doesn’t care about garage doors at ALL.”

“Why bother with garages, or even cars, when you can snap your fingers and make anything or go anywhere?” He seems genuinely baffled. “All these objects—and morons—you’re focusing on are just distractions, Veronica. Because you’re afraid to face the real problem, which is…”

Then the door swings abruptly open, and with a frustrated hiss, he vanishes.

“Veronica, doll, why are you hiding in here?” Candace shoves into the room, convinced, as always, that every space is eager to receive her. And damned if her green velvet turtleneck bubble dress DOESN’T look like a couch. She offers V a perfunctory air kiss. “Oh wow, love the kitchen, it’s so…quaint! And oh my GOSH those mojitos you made are FAB!” She waves the half-empty glass in one hand, splashing pink liquid on the floor. “Is it TRUE you got all the produce via barter at an off-the-grid collective?”

“You bet!” V chirps, vanishing the cookbook and still-stirring spoon before Candace notices past the self-absorption. She creates a tray of gluten-free appetizers in the corner behind her. “Let’s just take these snacks out to the main...area, and I’ll come back to plate dinner in a while.”

They file through the door into the miniscule living room; Piz and Arlo (a skinny, behatted artist with a mop of beige hair and John Lennon glasses) are wedged together on the love seat. V sets her tray on the coffee table, beside the denuded drink pitcher, and the wine bottle which is open but otherwise untouched. Sits, reluctantly, next to Candace on the sofa, and waves hello while reaching for a glass.

Piz snatches it away, however, before her fingers can close on the stem. “Not yet sweetie, it’s still breathing,” he says, with the intonation that makes it clear she’s mis-stepped. “Here, there’s just a liiiitle bit of mojito left, and I know you’re not much of a drinker anyway.”

He hands her a highball glass with about an inch of pink liquid inside. Behind him, just below the ceiling, Logan appears, and uses both index fingers to make the ‘shame on you’ gesture.

V glances at Candace, who has a clear view of her hot-yet-annoying ex but seems oblivious. Hisses, “What are you DOING? You can’t enchant in front of humans, it’s against the RULES!”

His brows flatten, mock-exasperation. “You know full well they can’t see or hear me, let alone notice we’re talking, or you wouldn’t be whispering threats. And I should add, all three of them are so self-absorbed, maintaining the don’t-look spell is CAKE.”

“Well quit maintaining!” she says. “I’m trying to focus on my first-ever human dinner party, and your presence is extremely distracting!”

“Sorry peaches,” he says, not sounding it. “You just accused me of dismissing mortal stuff you apparently love. So I’m calling your bluff until I figure out what’s so fascinating.”

“Oh cool, eats!” Arlo stops scrolling his phone long enough to notice the canapes. Picks one up and examines it before squinting at her. “Hey, this doesn’t contain, like, dairy or sugar or legumes, right? Or trans fats? Or, you know, animal products of any kind? Or salt?”

“Is…seaweed a salt?” V asks. “Because they’re made of seaweed. And…” behind him, Logan mouths, _nutritional yeast_ , “uh…soy…products.”

“Whoa, awesome.” He bites down, chews thoughtfully before speaking around the mouthful. “Locally sourced, I hope?”

“You heard what Stosh said about the collective.” Candace tosses back the rest of her drink and settles on the sofa, pinning Piz with a look that can only be called skeptical. “I don’t see how this food could GET more local. I have to admit, I’m surprised, Piznarski. Before we consciously uncoupled, I didn’t view you as environmental.”

“Well time changes people,” Piz says, with a trace of defensiveness. “Veronica can vouch for me, right hon? I constantly strive these days to keep my carbon footprint at zero. Or smaller.”

Veronica has only the vaguest idea what a carbon footprint is, let alone how to make one negative; but it’s hard to formulate a response when Logan’s eyes have just lit with unholy glee.

“Better watch out, Ronica,” he taunts, bracing both forearms on the loveseat’s back and leaning between Piz and Arlo, who shift apart without realizing they’re doing so. “Looks like velvet nightmare over there is the competition. And Pus is trying SO HARD to impress her he’s not even sure what he’s saying.”

“It’s PIZ!” she hisses, and Piz reaches across the coffee table to awkwardly pat her leg.

“Veronica and I instantly bonded because SHE appreciates me,” he says, with a triumphant glance at Candace. “Some women prefer a guy who’s an up-and-comer, even when financial sacrifices have to be made to optimize career potential.”

Logan spreads one palm across his eyes, shaking his head, and Veronica jumps in before Candace can escalate. “Heyyy, how about some music? I think Piz has a special soundtrack planned, right sweetie?”

“Oh sure.” Piz jumps up and trots over to his extremely-elaborate, space-consuming stereo, begins adjusting knobs and lifting shields. “I’ve curated an entire collection for the evening around a central theme. Points to any of you who can guess both metatextual cues and musical style thread.”

Mournful violins begin to play, at a glacial pace--then a high-pitched woman’s voice kicks in, singing affectedly about the years since she’s felt a guy’s touch. Piz glances at Candace, Candace sighs loudly, Veronica frowns, and Logan begins to cackle.

Arlo, still gnawing on his seaweed chew says, “Ah, Holter. Interesting chord progressions. But I really feel like ‘Tragedy’ was a more authentic work in terms of avant-garde bonafides.”

“Oh sure.” Candace grabs the wine bottle V was denied and sloshes a quarter into a glass. “Less syrupy-sentimental, regarding relationships that are OVER, and definitely more ARTFUL. Plus it’s inspired by _Hippolytus._ That’s a Euripides play, Veronica. A Greek tragedy.”

“Much like this dinner party’s rapidly becoming.” Logan points at a wine glass so it magically fills and gestures for V to take it. “Wonder what she’d say if she knew you saw that particular piece’s premiere?”

“Probably tell me I don’t look a day over forty.” V tosses back the swallow of Mojito before accepting his drink. “And then over-explain the plot.”

He snorts. “If tonight’s conversation’s normal human interaction, I’d hate to endure deviant. What’s so compelling to you about eating kelp with these nitwits, seriously? I’m at a loss.”

“It’s NICE to listen to music,” she says, though she kind of agrees, “before enjoying a good meal. It’s NORMAL. Not everyone can be witty and cool and devastatingly sexy. Quit acting so judgy.”

“Oh is that your opinion? Mr. Musical Style Thread could care less about coolness? How about we try an experiment—see how much this competition you’re dismissing matters to him?”

Logan waves a hand, and Piz’s head pops up from brooding Candance-contemplation like he’s just had a lightbulb moment. “You know what’s REALLY artful?” he demands. “Nickelback!”

A horrified expression spreads across his face, accompanied by a manic grin; he gets up and turns the stereo off, then on, and ‘Rockstar’ blasts from the speakers. Piz begins to dance, an awkward flailing, and Veronica turns on Logan, who’s floating at rest on one side now, cheek propped by his palm. “Quit tormenting him,” she murmurs. “He looks ridiculous!”

“Hate to say it pumpkin,” he tells her, with no discernable remorse, “but those are his actual moves. Keep a good three feet between you at clubs, is my advice.”

“Is this whole Nickelback thing meant to be…ironic?” Candace ventures, eyeing Piz dubiously as he begins the Running Man. “I thought we were doing Game Night, not Theme Night.”

“No!” He twirls towards the stereo, pressing buttons randomly as he shimmies. “I have no idea why I’m even playing Nickelback! Because first of all, I don’t OWN Nickelback, and secondly I can’t stand them. What I really like is…Creed!”

He presses a scandalized hand against his mouth, flicks frantically at the off switch. “My Sacrifice” erupts full-blast anyway and Piz begins to bang his head.

“Whoa.” Arlo pours a glass of wine without looking, rapt. “Is this, like, performance art?”

Candace takes the bottle away and empties it into her goblet. “I wonder if he calls the piece ‘Desperation’.”

Veronica stifles a laugh, because good one. Logan appears next to her, perched on the arm of the couch. “See? I hate to make snap judgments, but I definitely think this is embarrassing him.”

“Just stop messing with the poor guy before he breaks something.” V winces as Piz’s metal-hands swing perilously close to a vase, and she wiggles her nose to move it to a different shelf. “Can’t you go do something constructive?”

“Hmmm.” Logan pretends to ponder. Holds up a finger. “You know what, Veronica, I CAN. If there’s one thing I learned at my mother’s knee, it’s home décor. And this place could use some sprucing up.”

He waves at the far wall, where a mounted elephant head appears; Veronica gasps and vanishes it, but not before he’s conjured up myriad other objects just as bad. Ivory figurines now line the fireplace, and there’s a framed photo of Nugent with his foot on a dead lion reading, “To Piz, let the hunt begin. Your pal, Ted.”

“What do you think?” Logan asks as Piz slumps to the floor, grabs the wine bottle, and then frowns upon finding it empty. He changes the rug to a bearskin, snickers when Piz double-takes at the snarling head and falls backwards. “All the upholstery would look better ostrich, right? And maybe I could change the chicken currently turning to ash on the stove to piping-hot bunny rabbit?”

“You wouldn’t DARE!” She vanishes the figurines with a snap, and he winks to replace them with taxidermied frogs playing guitars. “And if I thought for a second any actual animals were harmed to create this display, I’d be just as upset as they are!”

“Whoa, the kitsch factor in this apartment is off the CHARTS,” Arlo says, as Piz slumps supine on the bearskin like he’s too tired to futz--swallows the last slug of wine straight from the bottle, and throws an arm across his eyes. Getting up to inspect a plaque that reads, _I like big game and I cannot lie_ , Arlo adds, “Like, you’re really making a statement via, uh, representational humor about the cruelty of hunting and fishing.”

Logan quirks a brow at Veronica, who performs a massive eye-roll. Candace says, “Personally I find kitsch and irony outdated as forms of humor. It’s like, does everything have to be a joke, Stosh? Is the global economic conspiracy FUNNY?”

“What does the global economic conspiracy have to do with this get-together?” Piz sits up; spots the Nugent picture on the wall, flinches, and casts an accusing look at Veronica, who gestures quickly to make it disappear. “I already told you I bartered for the food, and we’re playing a board game you OWN.”

“And I already told YOU I’m on a liquid diet.” Candace reaches into the massive straw bag by the couch and pulls out a bottle of wine. Unscrewing the top, she pours half into her glass, before setting it out of everyone else’s reach. “Plus Arlo’s free-trade vegan. Which you SHOULD have conveyed to Veronica before she made that meat-laden caloric pot of excess in the kitchen, because you KNOW he and I abhor waste.” She glares at Piz over the drink’s rim, then frowns at Arlo, who’s snapping cell photos of the frogs. “And speaking OF waste, it’s irresponsible to own physical board games, so we’ll play Scruples tonight using the app. I’m airdropping you the download link now.”

All three of them whip out their cells and begin typing, so Veronica fishes for the one Piz helped her choose, when they went to the Apple store yesterday to upgrade his. She’s fascinated by the sleek object, but has only the haziest idea how to use it. So discreetly, she wiggles her nose to install the game.

_Polish Your Halo or Sharpen Your Horns_ , the introductory message reads. _Over 100 sticky situations will reveal a lot about you. Sit in the hot seat and review your choices, while other players secretly vote on how they think you’d react._

“So the purpose of this game is to guess if your friends are lying?” she asks, confused.

“Oh ye of too much faith.” Logan leans close, as if confiding a secret, despite the fact that only she can hear him. “This bunch is too self-righteous NOT to lie.”

“The person in the hot seat gets asked a moral question, and everyone else judges just how ‘nice’ they really are.” Candace punctuates with air quotes, flashing a pointed look at Piz. “Stosh can answer the first question, since he’s so EVOLVED now. ‘If you found a wallet with money in it, would you turn it in to the police?’”

“Of course!” Piz says, as Candace and Arlo start furiously typing. Veronica presses buttons until a notes page appears, and enters her response—‘I hope so?’ “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“Are you forgetting the time you wrote Alys that fifty-dollar check for compost, which she forgot to cash…and you never reminded her?” Candace eyes him archly, sipping wine, and he blushes.

“Because you overdrew our bank account replacing all your shoes with pleather versions!”

“Face it, man.” Arlo sits on the edge of the coffee table to hoover up the remaining appetizers. “You need money. Why else would you be living with your girlfriend of two months, and still wearing that coat?”

“Being a victim of capitalism doesn’t mean I would STEAL-STEAL,” Piz protests. “I’m not a BARBARIAN. Veronica, what’s your answer? ‘Of course’, right?”

He makes a grab for her phone, so she quickly magics the note to read ‘Absolutely!’—a sentiment he grows smug upon surveying. “See? Our relationship may be new, but Veronica GETS me.”

“What you get is that he likes being flattered.” Logan creates a martini out of thin air and takes a meditative sip. “But I hope it also occurs to you his friends have a point.”

“Candace is just jealous and pretending not to be.” Veronica waves a dismissive hand, puzzling over an app called ‘Garage Band’. “And Arlo clearly has an inferiority complex towards the world. Or if he doesn’t, he should.”

“Both fair assessments.” Logan toasts her with the drink. “But how much is Peas taking advantage of your unfamiliarity with humans, is my question. Because frankly, his bosom buddies’ judgment was harsh.”

“Just stop. It’s like you think I’m gullible.” She snorts, but clinks her glass to his. “As if.”

“Not gullible, per se,” he corrects. “Good-hearted, maybe. Prone to blind spots regarding people you’ve befriended. Both stellar qualities, as long as no one takes advantage.”

She gazes at him; because she might get Piz, but Logan gets HER. And she wishes….it’s too late, though. She’s with another guy, even if she’s semi-regretting that choice as a result of this evening. And no relationship, or lack thereof, changes the fact that Logan’s most-popular in a group to which she’ll never belong. Her mother is the drunk witch who messed around with the head warlock, ruining the family name. And her dad is the Grand Justice of the coven, who takes a hard line on magical infractions…a possibly even less popular lifestyle choice.

Meanwhile, LOGAN’S family runs the most famous magical entertainment troupe in the free cosmos, and spends holidays with the Kanes at their compound on Jupiter. So no matter how cute, and funny, and generally-supportive a boyfriend he is, not to mention amazing in bed, especially when he does that thing with the hip swivel where he…

Wait, what’s her point again?

“You meet a girl who’s just broken up with her boyfriend of many years, PIZ,” Candace is reading when Veronica snaps to attention. “Do you immediately ask her on a date, then passive-aggressively hint you’d like to move in? Or do you give her a chance to figure out elevators and public transit on her own?”

“Why do I have to go twice in a row?” Piz whines, reaching for the fresh wine bottle, which Candace jerks away. “And why is that question so oddly specific?”

“Quit pouting and answer,” she says, typing. Arlo lifts the edge of the bearskin rug to read the label.

“I mean,” Piz glances at Veronica, defensive. “I don’t see what’s wrong with asking out a single girl. Especially since I was 100% single at the time—and a really good catch, I might add. NPR internships like mine don’t grow on trees.”

“UNPAID internships?” Candace purrs, which earns her a dirty look. “And you would SO push this hard. You and I were living together after six weeks. And you ‘borrowed’ my subway card almost every day.”

“Lucky for you, Veronica seems rich,” Arlo adds. “Otherwise, you’d never afford all these statement pieces. This rug’s got to be quality, right? The fur feels so REAL.”

“How would you suggest I survive without help?” Piz demands of Candace. “Move back to Oregon? DJ at the local easy-listening station? Perform menial labor while wearing a UNIFORM? Besides, Veronica LIKES taking care of me!”

“Wait, am I supposed to have a job?” Veronica turns to Logan, suddenly concerned. “Because none of THEM have paying jobs! I thought not working for money was NORMAL!”

“Well you don’t, realistically, need cash.” He winces as Candace refills her glass to the brim. “But I guess it’s your call? Personally, I avoid tasks, I find they interfere with my free time. But you always did have a fetish for keeping busy.”

Candace swipes dramatically at her screen, then looks up at Piz, eyes glittering. “Next question, Stosh. If a girl was more powerful than you, just generally better in every way, would you be fine with that? Or would you diminish her as much as possible, so you’d look less pathetic? Which, of course, would only serve to make you seem MORE pathetic?”

She types, in a vengeful rush; Veronica pauses to consider, then writes ‘diminish’ in her app. Piz leaps to his feet, setting the empty bottle he’s still holding down with a plonk. “Okay, that’s IT, Veronica! What is HAPPENING here? First the music got weird, then animal stuff appeared everywhere, and now I’m the only one answering these…unnecessarily intrusive questions. Are you using your…YOU know…to embarrass me? Maybe you’re mad I asked you to cook for my friends?”

“Your friends who barely eat?” She plants hands on hips and stands too, because this is patently unfair. “A minor fact you neglected to mention? Since you know their tastes so much better than I do, why exactly didn’t YOU handle dinner?”

“Because you LOVE housework!” he says, with a helpless shrug. “You put on an apron every day and start scrubbing, you even call yourself my helpmate! And it’s not like I know how to make seaweed…tofu…whatever that is, anyway. Or really anything besides Ramen.”

“I was just trying to prove I can do normal!” Veronica says, as Logan vanishes the martini with a flourish and produces a bowl of popcorn. He sets it on the side table as he munches, watching raptly. “I thought you’d help! But all you do is criticize me for bits I get wrong—like shopping at places other than Whole Foods!”

“You served me wine from WHOLE FOODS?” Candace gasps. “Even though they’re owned by AMAZON?”

“Oh, like you don’t shop solely at box stores,” Piz scoffs, rounding on her. “I lived with you for a year, Candace, I know ALL your secrets. For example, that dress came from WAL-MART.”

“Probably their home furnishings collection,” Logan puts in, as Candace gasps, “HOW DARE YOU TELL PEOPLE!” Veronica, finally fed up, turns on her ex.

“And YOU! You’re no better!” She pokes him in the chest, advancing. “You caused this whole showdown, putting words in Piz’s mouth so I’d worry he’s using me for money! Dick move, Echolls. I’m surprised you’d stoop so low.”

“Think again, peaches.” He squares up to fight with every indication of enjoyment. “All I did was load embarrassing questions into Candace’s app. She chose which ones to ask, and he’s responsible for his answers.”

“Then he’s…” Veronica trails off, appalled. Flinches as Arlo walks straight towards her, veers without realizing he’s done so, and wanders into the kitchen.

“Broke and needing a place to crash, because he girl he likes dumped him?” Logan’s expression turns gentle. He notices Candace flailing for ammo, and produces a pillow she can use to hit Piz. “’Fraid so. It’s been clear from the beginning he’s in no way worthy of you; but even I’m surprised by how far he misses the mark.”

“Wow.” V watches dispassionately as Candace vents until feathers fly. “Wow. And I tried so HARD to pretend to be human. Or at least I TRIED to try. Doing work by hand is TOUGH, it turns out, whereas I really excel at magic. And every time I cook, I BURN THINGS!”

“Then I guess it’s lucky you’re not, in fact, a fifties housewife.” Logan takes her hands. “And are, instead, an amazingly powerful witch. You could kick Celeste’s ass sideways, you know, if you weren’t holding back for fear of pissing off Dad.”

“I could, couldn’t I?” Veronica meets his eyes. “And it’s not like she wouldn’t deserve it.”

“She’s earned the worst you can dish out over CENTURIES.” He smiles down into her eyes. “But if you plan to take action, warn me first. I’ll need a lot more popcorn than this.”

Veronica sighs. Glances around the apartment with faint nostalgia, gaze settling briefly on Piz and Candace (who are tearfully embracing). “I never should have run,” she admits. “Committing to you will prove annoying, no doubt, but you aren’t THAT scary. And it’s beneath me, really, to give up a fight before I win.”

A wave of her hand makes cardboard boxes appear, into which all her possessions begin flying. Once full, they magically seal. In the kitchen, the timer goes off, Arlo drops something with a clatter, and smoke begins to seep beneath the door. She wrinkles her nose, fanning it away. “So where should I send my stuff? Someplace more scenic and less…on fire?”

“I know exactly the right cloud.” Logan snaps, and the boxes vanish. “Nowhere near all the sycophants who piss you off, and the perfect size for two.”

“Sounds nice,” she says, and goes on tiptoe to kiss him. Sinks into sensation, reminded, once again, precisely WHY she’s dated Logan for sixty years.

Dimly, in the background, she hears Piz calling…wondering where she went, if she made dessert, alerting her there’s smoke. She pulls reluctantly away to vanish the smoldering chicken—she’s mad, but not MALICIOUS. Then says, looking up from beneath her lashes, “Take me there,” and smiles, mirroring Logan’s grin.

They disappear in a blinding flash, just as the super begins to pound on the door.


	11. DAY 7, 2019-- CAMELOT

She can’t get her hands clean.

Veronica scrubs, stripped down to her underwear in the hotel-suite bathroom where the Secret Service stashed her while they coped with chaos. Spatters of blood have gotten everywhere, hair, skin, under her nails; but no one’s brought her fresh clothes, she can’t even find a robe. Bathing until her flesh scalds will have to wait. Besides, it’s not like she can wash away the memories.

_Duncan was only in town to make one speech._  Yanking free a handful of tissues, she blots brownish-red from her hairline. About HEALTH INSURANCE, of all ironies, nothing controversial…he’s never DONE anything controversial, and she would know. No person in the free world has cause to hate the most wholesome politician since Carter, but some whack job did. They did, and he’s gone, and if she has to face the press while bloody, she may start screaming and never stop.

There’s a knock, soft but steady, and Logan’s voice carries though wood, sure and calm. “I found you a clean dress,” he tells her, accompanied by a clink and rattle. “I’m hanging it on the knob.”

Grabbing a towel from the shelf beneath the sink, she knots it at her chest and yanks open the door, surprising him in the act of leaving. He spins, concern etched on his features, then looks politely to one side—and this gesture of respect, combined with the fact he alone knew what she needed, makes the dam inside her burst.

“It won’t come OFF,” she whispers, ducking to meet his gaze. Draws his attention back to her, where it belongs. “The blood, it’s everywhere and I don’t have TIME…”

“Shhh.” He glances over his shoulder, then herds her into the bathroom and shuts them both inside. Pulls her against his chest and holds her close, stroking her back strictly within the boundary of the towel. She lets loose and starts to cry. “It’s okay. Take as long as you need. Nobody expects you to…the plane won’t even be here for an hour. They’ll want me to do all the talking anyway, I’m his Chief of Staff.”

“He was just making a SPEECH,” she reiterates, like she’s been having this conversation out loud. “Everyone loves him. EVERYONE.”

“Of course,” Logan says, though this is patently not true, maintaining the reassuring rhythm of caresses along her spine. “But some of us…we love you, too. And we’re here to help you keep it together.”

She rubs her face against his suit coat, wiping away tears—he doesn’t protest, although the thing probably cost at least a grand. He speaks truth, she knows; for the last six years, he’s loved her a lot better than her husband, with so-intimate-she-wishes-it-was-physical full focus. She’s felt, more and more lately, HE wishes it was physical, too. But that’s just one more pipe dream for the Duncan Kane’s always-perfect, ever-loyal, American-sweetheart wife.

Widow.

V needs to face the press in an hour. After which, maybe, she can run far away to grieve, somewhere she won’t have to pretend to be perfect any more.

So, “Thanks,” she says, lifting her chin to meet his eyes, curling a palm around his cheek. He smiles, just a crooked quirk of one corner of his mouth. The grin that always slays her. “I mean it. Thank you for everything.”

He nods, like he’s puzzled she’s offering gratitude, says, “Always.” Gently disengages, and raps his knuckles once, restive, on the marble counter before leaving. A second later, the door cracks open, and his hand pokes through proffering a black dress on a hanger. Reminder of the stakes. Proof it’s not yet time to fall apart.

She hangs the garment on a rack, lets the towel fall to the floor. Turns the shower temperature to max as she strips, then studies her face in the mirror.

_The king is dead_ , she thinks.  _After all these years of pretending. Long live the queen._


End file.
